


What's the Story? (Morning Glory)

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [99]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ford wants answers, Gen, John Watson's military history, John's medals, Man Lab references, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine year old Ford has finally noticed a pattern in the adults in his life: how sometimes they seem to remember something that makes them sad and scared and sorry. And he's determined to get to the bottom of it, because he's a Holmes, and finding out everything is what Holmeses do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's the Story? (Morning Glory)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the Oasis song, though I've played around with the punctuation of the title for my own purposes.
> 
> I'm finally back from my wonderful travels, and back to working, to writing my pro fiction, and of course my fanfic! WOOOOOOO!

Ford crouched on the landing where the stairs twisted to go to Sherlock and John’s flat. John and Sherlock were at their door, watching him, giving him the thumbs up to _go!_

Ford’s own little thumbs worked steadily on the controls, and the helicopter responded beautifully, manoeuvring down the stairs, into the foyer, then whirring in a tight arc to end up in front of Mrs H’s front door. He jabbed the launch button, and the helicopter fired two little plastic pellets at the door. (She had been warned that she’d be getting an unusual visitor by text message, at John’s insistence, but she didn’t know what, at Sherlock’s. This, thought Ford, was going to be fun!)

Mrs Hudson gasped a little when she opened her door to the remote controlled helicopter hovering there, blowing her hair every which way, but then she laughed.

“You scamp!” she called out, knowing nine-year-old Ford would be nearby.

Ford adjusted the controls so that the rotors tilted back and Mrs H could read the attached sign – a stiff piece of cardboard which read: “Send biscuits if convenient. If inconvenient, send biscuits anyway.” An arrow pointed down to a net hanging underneath the belly of the toy.

(Sherlock had written the note, and John had laughed. Another of their private jokes. They had a lot of them. Ford didn’t usually mind. He and Sherlock had their own private jokes; and he had some with John too. It was like a game, some of the silly secrets they kept. There were other secrets, Ford knew, ones that weren’t silly. Ford was planning to find out about those ones.)

Mrs Hudson left her door open as she went inside, and Ford kept the helicopter hovering until she returned. Then he angled the rotors again so that she could place the fresh-baked shortbread, wrapped in a clean tea towel, into the netting.

“There you go then, you scallywags, all three of you!” Mrs H called out.

At the door, John and Sherlock grinned and gave Ford another thumbs up for getting away with it. They’d have been scolded (but probably still have got biscuits, Ford thought). With another impish grin, Ford brought the helicopter, now laden with treats, back up the stairs to the landing, and then guided it ahead of him into 221b.

*

Mrs Hudson listened to the patter of Ford’s feet as he chased the toy back into the flat above and smiled. _Those boys._ They had been watching _Man Lab_ again, and where James May went, she had learned, Ford and then John and finally Sherlock would surely follow. The helicopter was a marked improvement on last week's homemade bomb filled with icing sugar that John had failed to defuse correctly. Her three idiot boys had laughed themselves to tears over that one, but it had taken four days for the smell of burnt sugar to dissipate.

Mrs H smiled fondly as she heard Ford’s bright laughter cascading down the stairs. He'd been in very solemn moods of late. It was good to hear him giggling again.

*

Ford's thumbs worked nimbly over the controls for the helicopter, bringing it and its cargo to rest on the table. It had been a good morning, watching the show and then reproducing some of the experiments, with variations, depending on what materials they had to hand.

It was terrific fun, and a welcome distraction from the question that had been bothering him more and more in the last month. Well, it had been a distraction until last week’s Sugar Bomb Incident made it clear that the problem on his mind was even more widespread than he'd realised. The more he thought about it, the more Ford realised he'd seen evidence of this problem for years.

He'd discussed it with Violet, and she said she'd noticed it too, so he knew he wasn't overthinking things, as he sometimes did. Violet had been very practical and sensible in her advice, but still, Ford couldn't let it go.

All problems, he'd been taught, had a solution, if only you understood the problem correctly.

Ford didn't know precisely when this problem had begun, but he had first properly noticed it last month, on his parents' wedding anniversary.

*

Ford was supposed to be in bed, but his brain was in one of its whirling-around-and-around-and-around phases; so instead of lying fretfully awake in bed, Ford had taken refuge in the linen press where the scent of fresh cotton and dry air in the soothing dark made him feel a bit better. He kept an orange blanket in there, too, and it was now wrapped around his shoulders. He couldn’t see the brightly coloured weave of it in the dark, but he could imagine it. The sunshiny hue of it, and its associations with comfort and care, made him breathe more easily.

Ford gathered up an armful of sheets and pillow slips, pressed his face into them and inhaled. New Made Bed Smell was one of his favourite smells, especially if he concentrated and brought to mind his mother's light perfume, too - a bit lemony, a bit like spice, a bit like flowers. It made him feel safe and loved and helped his brain be calm again.

He heard his parents return from their night out and their strange rhythmic steps meant they were dancing in the hall. Ford opened the cupboard a crack to watch. He liked seeing his parents happy together, and they were always happy when they were dancing.

They were kissing, and Daddy's hand was underneath Mummy's blouse and then all her buttons were undone, and she was laughing. Mummy lifted Daddy's hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers, and then she paused at his bent pinkie finger. She had gone suddenly solemn, and kissed that finger especially gently.

“Don’t,” said his father softly.

"But I'm so sorry, love."

"You are not responsible..."

"I should have fought harder. Been faster. Done better."

Then Daddy put his hand under Mummy's blouse again, obviously running his fingers over the scar Mummy had on her chest, below her shoulder. He kissed the little frown between her eyes.

"You were exemplary, my dearest. You were magnificent. It is I who should apologise. I should have known Moran was still at large. I should never have allowed such a dire situation to transpire in the first place."

Mummy shook her head again, and threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him close for a kiss.

"Let it go, Sally," Daddy said after the kiss, so softly that Ford found it hard to hear, "It is the past, and over. We are scarred but whole, and Moran is dead. He cannot harm us and he certainly cannot harm Sherrinford."

Mummy gave an odd laugh then. "They're just bad dreams, I know."

"You did not fail me," Daddy said, kissing her frown line again, "Do not fear you will ever fail him."

After that there was a lot more kissing, so Ford pulled the door shut again and piled towels around his ears until he was certain they'd gone to finish their kissing in their own room.

But he sat there in the linen-smelling dark for a long time, thinking about how his parents had sounded when they talked in the hall. In the middle of being happy, how they were suddenly sad, and apologising, and it seemed to him they were a little bit scared too, although it all passed so quickly.

And Ford thought about how this wasn't the first time that sudden sad quiet had happened.

*

The frequency and circumstances of these moments were much on Ford's mind from that night. He was trying to identify patterns.

That's when he realised that Sherlock did the same thing, sometimes. Like the day Sherlock and Ford had gone to have coffee with Molly at the hospital, and they'd walked past the red phone box and Ford had seen _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_ written in faded ink in the stone wall of St Bart's Hospital. Ford thought it resembled Tad Anderson's writing. Looking more carefully, Ford could see how the wall used to be covered in different writing all saying the same thing.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

When Sherlock came back to see why Ford had stopped, he'd looked at the faded messages and his face had gone funny. Sad and annoyed and like he was sorry and also relieved and a bit surprised and a very little bit like he was remembering something horrible. It was a very complicated face.

"Why did people write about you on the wall?" Ford asked.

"People do extraordinary things for sentimental reasons," Sherlock replied, but Ford could tell he was uncomfortable and thinking a lot more things than he was saying. But all Sherlock said next was, "Come on. Molly's waiting."

And then there was John and the sugar bomb last week.

John thought he'd defused the bomb that Sherlock had rigged up, and was very smug about it, then he realised it was still ticking and he stubbornly went back to defusing it instead of ducking, like Sherlock told him to.

And suddenly, the final warning bell rang, and it was like John had forgotten it was a game, and all the blood drained from his face just before the bomb detonated and icing sugar burst out of the thin paper bag they'd set up.

John sat there, his left hand shaking, his staring eyes round and intensely blue in his pale face made whiter with all the sugar, and his breathing went funny. Sherlock had stared back, a hand raised towards John, his expression... Ford thought for a second Sherlock looked scared too, and then sorry – but then Sherlock snorted a laugh (and John really did look ridiculous, or would have, if he hadn't looked so frightened) and suddenly John was giggling too, then laughing hard, and Sherlock laughed even harder. They just about had to hang onto each other they were laughing so hard at the end, and their laughter made Ford crack up too, and the three of them laughed till they cried.

But Ford couldn't forget that moment just before. That moment that was scared and sad and sorry.

It confused Ford that the adults in his life would go oddly quiet and then afterwards sort of smile or even laugh. Mummy and Daddy did that a lot, though more quietly than John and Sherlock. What could be so sad/scary and then so funny?

Even more frustrating was that Ford had trouble finding common factors in what triggered these moments. Well, John and the sugar bomb were pretty clear. John had been a soldier. He had probably seen real bombs do bad things, like kill people. Maybe John got it mixed up for a second, the ticking of a pretend bomb and the blowing up of a real one. John was usually very good at telling the difference between real and pretend, but Ford supposed he had off days.

It made less sense that maybe Sherlock got mixed up like that sometimes. Sherlock had once been away for a long time, Ford knew, though why he had and what he'd done were a mystery. But sometimes without warning, Sherlock would go sad-sorry-scared, and it was hard to tell if it was something to do with when he was Away or not. Some of John's songs made Sherlock do that. Some cold days in winter he did too, or when people made bonfires in November, and there was that time at St Bart’s, and once at the flower show. Ford made a lot of lists about it, but he couldn’t find a common denominator.

But Ford knew that it all came down to this: Sherlock and Daddy and Mummy were keeping sad secrets from him, and so was John – from him and from Violet.

Ford knew that John had been a doctor in the army, and that he'd been a soldier too. That was a bit strange. Ford’s research showed that doctors and soldiers did different things in the British Army, and that John had done them both was unusual.

Ford also knew that John had two medals and that he'd had to leave the army after he was shot. Ford thought John should be very proud of having medals, but John never talked about them – or about being shot. Instead, sometimes, he went sad-sorry-scared.

Ford didn't understand. And he wanted to. He wanted to know everything about all the sad secrets his family was keeping from him. He wanted to know because... because...

Because he was a Holmes and Holmeses always wanted to know and understand _everything_.

He'd tried asking Mummy about it, but she said it was nothing, just a sad thing from the past that had a happy ending, and then she'd smile that soft sappy smile she had for Daddy.

When Ford asked Daddy, he was told it was a Mummy-and-Daddy thing and not to worry about it. That was very strange. Daddy normally answered all of his questions, no matter how obscure, or how long it took to get to the heart of the matter. But not this time. Daddy had spoken gently but with finality, in a way he rarely did with Ford. So Ford knew he wasn’t going to get very far there.

Ford naturally began to wonder what it meant, that he’d finally asked a question that Daddy wouldn’t answer. Sherlock had avoided answering questions too, and so did Mummy. Ford hadn’t tried asking John yet, but he was convinced it wouldn’t be any more useful. John never talked much about being in the army, so Ford didn’t think he’d start now.

Ford did the only thing he could then, which was to ask Violet what she thought of it all. Unfortunately, while she was interested and thoughtful, she didn’t really have answers either.

Was it something about him, Ford wondered? Was there something wrong about him that this was the one question nobody would answer? Violet said it probably wasn't about him but some grown-up thing, but Sherlock and Daddy answered grown-up questions all the time, so why not this? It wasn't _logical._

So far today, Sherlock and John had not had any of those funny quiet moments like last week with the bomb, but Ford was keeping a sharp lookout for them, and for _clues_. For anything that might help him unlock the mystery. If no-one was going to answer his questions, he’d do what his fathers always did. He’d watch and listen and maybe snoop a bit, and he’d learn _that_ way.

In the meantime, Ford was having fun with the _Man Lab_ experiments and trying not to think about it, because all the thinking and the not knowing made his stomach hurt.

John hadn’t let them duel with pistols like James May had done in an earlier episode (and even Sherlock had been a spoilsport about that one) but the sabre duel had turned out all right. Sherlock had found John's old cane and John fetched Mrs H’s longest feather duster for the combat. Ford was pleased that his fencing lessons had finally proven their worth. He was only nine, but he was quick and accurate. It was funniest when John and Sherlock duelled, though, because Sherlock was fast and very graceful but John was accurate and focused, and he cheated by using the hook end of the cane to pull Sherlock off balance, though he said it wasn't cheating, it was being _resourceful_.

Making fireworks in a saucepan with gunpowder and chemicals had been fun too, though John wouldn't let him and Sherlock use as much gunpowder as they wanted. Ford thought it might have been another war thing, even if John didn’t go sad-sorry-scared about it.

Now they'd used the toy helicopter to get biscuits, so the last experiment from the episode was to replicate the Grade 1 band. The only way they could think to do that was to swap instruments. Sherlock, mouth crammed with shortbread, was pretending that playing John's guitar would be easy and John was still trying to work out how to fit Sherlock's violin comfortably under his chin.

John paused to grin at Ford. "I've got a harmonica up in my room," he said, since Ford already knew how to play the violin and some basic guitar. “I picked it up a few years ago on a case, but never got around to learning it. Third drawer down," he said, "Next to the wooden box."

Ford ran upstairs to fetch it.

*

For a while, John gamely tried to make music on the violin, attempting guitar fingering on the neck and experimenting with the weight and vigor of dragging the bow across the strings. In the meantime, Sherlock was scowling at the guitar for not producing the sounds it was supposed to be making.

"You should just strum it," suggested John.

"I'm not a _beginner_ ," scoffed Sherlock, "and for God’s sake, stop sawing at the strings like my violin is a loaf of bread."

John tried to be gentler and the violin emitted a sound like a kitten down a well. This was accompanied by the guitar producing the sound of a crow being plucked by someone in mittens.

John giggled, his shoulders bunching up and jiggling the way they did when he was particularly tickled. "The harmonica will make this ensemble bloody perfect."

And then he and Sherlock exchanged a look, stopped playing and listened to the silence of Ford not being among those present.

John lowered the bow and turned his face up to the ceiling. He frowned. Then he frowned more deeply still. Then he looked at Sherlock with an expression both irritated and resigned. "I'm an idiot."

"He wouldn’t..." began Sherlock, putting the guitar down, but honesty compelled him to silence.

"He's a Holmes. Of _course_ he would. He couldn't bloody _resist_."

Sherlock flinched only slightly. "I'll fetch him."

John sighed and shook his head, and so both of them went upstairs to John's bedroom.

*

_It’s 2011. Five months ago, Sherlock learned that John used to be in a band. Three months ago, John started writing music again. Most of his songs are about his life with Sherlock. But not all of them._

_John didn’t always show the new songs to Sherlock. Sherlock had snooped for them a couple of times, but he’d found Illuminated, and after their fight about it, he was mostly patient. John showed everything to him eventually._

_He’d pretty much stopped snooping into John’s old life as well. Sherlock had always had a burning curiosity about life in general, and since meeting him, about John in particular. John was a man of intriguing contradictions, and certain things about John’s military service didn’t add up, but Sherlock would be damned if he’d ask bloody **Mycroft** for the details._

_So at the beginning, Sherlock researched some of John’s history in the public records: such as the details of John’s two medals. One he earned when he was in the RAMC; but John was in the Fusiliers when he gained his second. How did a doctor become an infantry man? And why?_

_The circumstances of John’s discharge were a separate matter. The incident had been in the papers at the time. Sherlock had missed the reports entirely, being of no interest to him back then, but it was an easy matter to find several reports in the archives._

_Sherlock had some key events, but not the links between them. He’d deduced rather a lot of course, but had no confirmation, and was biding his time for an opportunity to do so._

_So he hadn’t been looking for data when he’d gone rifling through John’s chest of drawers. He’d been looking for John’s previous notebook about a case that had flared up again. John kept most of his notebooks in date order in a document box, but this one was missing, and he’d been known to throw them into a drawer temporarily when writing up a case for the blog._

_That was the reason Sherlock went looking in the third drawer; but it was no excuse._

_Sherlock knew what was in the wooden box in that drawer. He’d looked inside it before; read the citations. Seen the medals and the photograph of John with his mates in the Fusiliers, most of whom were dead or invalided out of the army. And he’d put them all carefully back and John had been none the wiser. Or at least, he hadn’t commented._

_Today, Sherlock saw that the box had been recently shifted and curiosity got the better of him. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t help himself. He could certainly have done so, if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t want to. His curiosity was his driving motivation in the world, and he saw no reason to curtail it now._

_He opened the box. He lifted out all the things he'd seen before, digging immediately for the new thing - the folded piece of paper on the bottom  - and unfolded it._

_He read the first two verses, and saw how blurred some of the pen strokes were. He saw the ragged edge of the paper as it had been torn from the notebook._

_In a moment he traced the writing of it to a night two weeks ago. Simple case gone bad. Bad dreams for John later. His handwriting here was scrappier than usual. The blur came from anxious perspiration, rather than… or perhaps… Written in a dim light. In the middle of the night then. After a nightmare? And these smudges - tears?_

_And then Sherlock realised what a mistake it had been, to look in this box again. John would know, as John had known last time. But this song had been folded up at the bottom of the box. John had assumed Sherlock wouldn’t look in it again._

_John had told Sherlock to stop looking for the songs._

_John was going to be very unhappy about this._

_Sherlock considered simply returning the lyric to the box and pretending he’d never seen it, but things were changing with John, now they shared the music._

_Only one course was left._

_Sherlock was sitting at the table when John came home, the box by his left hand, the song folded up under his right. John walked into the room, saw instantly what Sherlock had done, and froze, furious, on the carpet. It wasn’t like when he was exasperated-angry about Sherlock digging up songs that weren’t ready yet. This time, he was tight-lipped angry - and hurt._

_Sherlock had expected the hurt, yet it still surprised him._

_“I was looking…” said Sherlock. He faltered at the pain in John’s expression. “I was looking for your notes on the Eldorado case and unfortunately succumbed to curiosity. I intended to put it back, but I realised at once you would know I’d seen it.”_

_“So you would have put it back if you thought you could get away with it?” John’s voice was clipped._

_“Of course. My intent was not to distress you. But then I saw the lyrics and I…” Sherlock looked away, for once at a loss. “I’m sorry, John.”_

_“Apologising, now? That’s not like you.”_

_“Nevertheless.”_

_A moment’s silence, and then John was at the table, picking up the box, and the piece of paper with the song on it._

_“If you want to know anything, you could just ask, you know,” he said wearily._

_“I’ve already deduced most of it.”_

_“Of course you have.” But John didn’t sound angry any more, only resigned. “Tell me. I know you’re dying to find out if you’re right.”_

_Sherlock looked at John regarding him with that odd, intent, reserved expression. Waiting._

_Sherlock was on the back foot, but there was nothing for it now but to continue. “I didn’t ask Mycroft for details,” he began._

_“He’s your arch enemy,” replied John with a wry twist of his mouth, “I know you didn’t. Go on.”_

_So Sherlock told John about his own history: studying medicine in part as a response to his mother’s death. His enrolment in the army reserves to fund the way. Joining the army in the medical corps so he could continue his studies. The first medal earned while he was in the RAMC._

_Then the switch from medical service to infantry, a rare thing indeed, which must have required command recommendations, probably from an officer related to the incident in which John, as a medical doctor rather than a soldier, had been decorated. Sherlock deduced the shift was in part about John wanting to intervene earlier in trauma cases; perhaps thinking that if his mother had received better and faster triage and medical aid, she might not have died. John thinking that perhaps he had more to offer at the front line._

_John retraining and then joining a specialist unit, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, because of his skills as a marksman as well as steadiness under fire, proven by that Military Cross._

_The second medal while a lieutenant in the Fusiliers. Then the Incident that resulted in his wounding and the medical discharge._

_The way John deliberately conflated his medical and military service when speaking of it, because he disliked answering questions about it. The way John kept his medals and citations in a box in a drawer, neither of which was locked, indicating that they were a source of ambivalence rather than shame. Perhaps relating to the notion that John was a doctor who became a soldier. Perhaps not, considering John’s willingness to decisively take a life to spare another – the cabbie proved that. Perhaps relating to the nightmares._

_John nodded at the end, slowly, and then said quietly, “Perhaps… some of those things. Perhaps none of them. Or all of them. I’m not always sure myself. It's complicated.”_

_Then John stared at the piece of paper in his hand, containing the lyric._

_“I wrote this after a bad night. It… it reflects more how I felt when I first returned to London. I don’t know that I feel precisely that way about it any more. I’m proud of my service, whatever I might feel about the war as a whole, or even individual parts of it. When I was in the Fusiliers, it used more parts of me than anyone had needed before. I was closer to being fully myself then. I saved lives – civilians as well as soldiers. I tried to save more. The medals… both of those times, I only did what needed doing. I don’t think I was braver than anyone else. And everything has a cost. It cost me. I woke up in the middle of the night still paying the price. So I wrote that song.”_

_He turned the piece of paper to show Sherlock the whole lyric. Sherlock saw the melody noted down under the words, and he could hear it in his head, in John’s voice._

_“No-one else is ever to hear that, Sherlock, or to see it. It's for me. Just me."_

_Sherlock regarded him speculatively, but he nodded._

_“I suppose I don’t mind you seeing it," John conceded, "You see all of me anyway.”_

_And yes, Sherlock did. Or he thought he did. Some things were in truth beyond his comprehension still._

_Until the Year in Hell._

_And when Sherlock came back from that terrible year Away, with scars and nightmares of his own, he knew the cost of war, the ambivalence of service, and he wished he didn’t understand._

_And he wished John had never had to learn to understand it either._

*

Ford had laid out all the things from the wooden box on John’s floor, next to the harmonica. He meant to have a quick look and put it all away, but then he’d found the citations and the photograph, and then the song. And he kept reading the song and reading it, trying to make sense of the words, but he couldn’t. The words were sad and angry and scared and other things he couldn’t work out.

 _The honour sits inside a box_  
_Guarded if not jailed_  
 _A thing of pride or something lost?_  
 _The mark of the ones I failed_

John never failed anyone. John was strong and funny and kind and _dependable._ Not in a boring way, like his teacher Mrs Bloomenthal dependably being grumpy on Mondays, but in an exciting way, like the stars moving across the sky every night, wheeling past and shining steady and bright.

 _Here’s a ribbon_  
_Here’s a nightmare_  
 _As you fight for the next breath_  
 _Why does survival feel so much like death?_

Ford knew John had nightmares sometimes, like Mummy did, and Sherlock did, but what did that have to do with his medals? Those were for brave things, weren’t they? John was very brave, too. He wasn’t scared of anything.

So when John and Sherlock opened the bedroom door and looked down at him, sitting among John’s medals and papers on the floor, Ford didn’t feel bad he’d been caught snooping. He was angry that he didn’t understand the song.

“Pack those up now, Ford,” John said quietly.

“Why do your medals make you sad?” Ford demanded to know. He was trying very hard to be cool and scientific, the way Daddy and Sherlock were when they asked questions. He saw Sherlock watching him with concern, and then looking at John with worry too. Perhaps he didn’t like Ford asking questions the way he asked them. Ford scowled at Sherlock for his double standard, but then Sherlock only looked back with his Calculating Face, like he was working out a dozen things that hadn’t occurred to anyone else.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now, Ford,” John replied coolly, and Ford had seen John talk that way to Sherlock before, too, when he was annoyed. “I want you to put those things away. They’re not yours.”

“But they don’t make _sense_ ,” Ford declared, “You got medals for being brave. It says so here.” Ford jabbed at the citations he’d found at the bottom of the box. “You got a Military Cross for bravery in taking command of a unit in the field when all their officers were shot; and you got the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for rescuing people under enemy fire…”

“I know what the medals are, Ford.” John’s tone was beginning to sound dangerous, but Ford had grown up with dangerous people who protected him, so he ignored it.

“You were brave,” Ford said like an accusation, “You were clever too, and it makes you _sad_. I want to know _why_.”

John turned to Sherlock. “Take him downstairs,” said John gruffly, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“No!” Ford protested.

“Take him downstairs, now,” John growled, and then he stood ramrod-straight.

Sherlock stepped towards Ford and held out his hand. “Come along, Ford. We have to talk.”

Ford glared at him, and bunched his hand into a fist, and then he glared at John, but John wasn’t looking at him. John was staring at the wall, his face… sort of angry. Sort of sad. Sort of blank. John cast Sherlock a hard look, and Ford swallowed at the sudden realisation.

_John is mad at Sherlock. And he is mad at **me**._

John had never been mad at Ford before. Ford didn’t like the feeling it gave him.

Holding his breath against a sudden urge to cry, Ford held his hand out to Sherlock and let himself be pulled to his feet. Sherlock kept hold of his hand and walked him out to the landing, then down the stairs. Sherlock paused part way, looked over his shoulder, like he wanted to say something to John, but he didn’t. He just kept hold of Ford’s hand and led him downstairs.

Then they stood on the carpet and Ford stared at the floor while Sherlock frowned at him. Ford said nothing for as long as he could stand it, until finally he blurted out:

“Why is he angry with you too?”

Sherlock sighed a little, cleared his throat softly, and replied. “I did the same thing, once. A long time before you were born. It was before a lot of things. I was curious about his past and I wanted to know. I didn't understand, then.”

Ford blinked up at him. “But you do now?”

“Yes. More than I wish I did.” 

This was the first bit of good news Ford had heard in weeks. Understanding was _possible_ , then. But still… “I don't understand.”

Sherlock looked him straight in the eye and said, “Good.”

It was the first thing Sherlock had ever said that had truly shocked Ford. He stared. “You never say that about _anything_ ,” he accused.

“Some things cost a lot to learn,” said Sherlock.

Ford blinked more rapidly. “But I _need_ to understand.”

Sherlock finally crouched down so that they were eye to eye. “Clarify that, Ford. What is it you need to understand?”

“Why you and John and Daddy and Mummy have sad secrets,” Ford said in a rush, still angry, but also upset now, because he hadn’t meant to make John angry or Sherlock sad, “And you and Daddy always say it’s all right to ask questions when I don’t understand, and to keep asking until I _do_.”

Ford heard John’s footsteps on the stairs behind him, but he didn’t look, wouldn’t look, because he didn’t want to see John’s face again when John was mad at him. John’s face like that made him hurt inside.

Sherlock glanced up to look at John behind them on the stairs, though, then looked down into Ford’s eyes again. He put his hand on Ford’s shoulder. _At least Sherlock isn’t mad at me_ , Ford thought, but he couldn’t make out what Sherlock’s expression meant.

“Usually, Ford, yes. That’s right. But…” Sherlock swallowed and squeezed his shoulder. “Sometimes there’s a cost for curiosity, and sometimes that is someone else's pain. If I’m trying to catch a criminal, it’s often worth it. But not all knowledge is worth the cost, Ford. Some questions will hurt someone you love, and so you need to think about why you want to know things and if it's worth hurting them to learn it. There can be good reasons for asking anyway; but most of them are bad reasons. Hurting people you love simply to satisfy your own curiosity is a bad reason, Ford. It took me a long time to learn that. I want you to learn it sooner.”

Ford’s jaw clenched and he wanted to cry and to yell and to stomp his feet in fury. “ _It isn’t about that._ ”

“Then what is it about?”

“Mummy and Daddy and John and you, you all go quiet and sad and scared sometimes, and it doesn’t make any _sense_ , and if I don’t _understand_ it how can I _fix_ it?”

Sherlock stared hard, and Ford thought he was in real trouble now, but then Sherlock’s face fell and he reached out and cupped Ford’s cheeks in his big hands. “Oh, Ford. You can’t fix it. It’s not for you to fix, and it’s not something you _can_ fix. For any of us.”

“But I don’t want you to be sad and scared,” Ford protested, frustrated and furious and desperate, “You fix _me_ when I feel bad. I want… I…” Ford found he was starting to cry, and he didn’t understand that either. It was a relief when Sherlock pulled him close and hugged him hard and rubbed his back as Ford began to cry.

Ford heard John’s footsteps getting closer, and he flinched as John placed a hand on his back, patting him.

“It’s all right, Ford,” said John gently, “I’m not mad any more. Shh, now. Shh.” His warm, square hand carded through Ford’s curls, and Ford didn’t know it was possible to feel so relieved. He shifted to look up at John through tear-clumped lashes.

“I’m sorry I made you angry,” Ford said in a small voice, and in a smaller one, choked with tears, he said, “I’m sorry I made you sad.”

“You didn’t,” John assured him, crouching down with Sherlock on the carpet, Ford between them. He pressed a kiss to Ford’s forehead, a sure sign of forgiveness, but it only made Ford cry harder. “Shh, now. It’s all right. My memories make me sad sometimes, but I have lots of good memories too. It’s just that my memories about being in the army are very complicated. They’re hard to explain.”

"Calculus is hard to explain too," said Ford, a shade defiantly through his tears, "but I understand it."

"So you do,” agreed John with a rueful smile, "But this isn't as straightforward as mathematics, even calculus. This is about my feelings about lots of different things that happened to me."

"But you were brave. The army gave you medals for it. For saving lives. That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"In a lot of ways it is,” said John in a careful tone, “But really, I only did what had to be done. That's all.  I saved my friends and I'm proud of that. But bad things happened too. I'm not proud of everything that happened."

Ford was still sniffing spasmodically but he was feeling calmer. "Is that why you have bad dreams sometimes? I thought it was because you got shot."

John grimaced. "It’s that too, because that was…” He sighed. “That was very bad, Ford, and I almost died.”

Ford’s heart began to race though he didn’t know why, because John was right there in front of him. John patted his shoulder though, and smiled kindly.

“But I didn’t die,” John said, “I’m fine now. I’m right here.”

It was one of those ridiculous, obvious things that John said sometimes, but Ford was still glad he’d said it. It was like the words pinned the truth into his head, somehow. John had once been badly hurt and nearly died, but he was fine now, and he was here and that was very, very good.

“So yes, that’s why I have bad dreams sometimes - because it's all mixed up together. The good and bad things. Happy and sad things. Clever and stupid things. Being brave and being scared out of my wits. And usually, the memories are all of those things at once. So. It's complicated, like I said. I don’t like to talk about it because it’s very hard to explain, even to very smart people like you and Sherlock. I don’t always understand it all myself, because it can’t be reduced to component parts like a maths problem. And… it’s over. I don’t think talking about it will help me any more, and I can’t imagine how it will help you to know any of it. If I ever think it will, I’ll talk to you, I promise. But not right now.”

Ford blinked as he thought about this. "Is that why you shut your medals away? Because looking at them reminds you that your feelings about them are… complicated?"

"That’s a good way of seeing it. Anyway, I much prefer to see my friends here and now, and know they’re okay, than look at the medals that are about a time when I was worried about them. What I did was only important because I was able to help them."

Then John and Sherlock exchanged a look that was one of their conversations-without-words and it made Ford annoyed again, at being left out, at not understanding.

But Sherlock held Ford’s hand and squeezed it. "We don't leave you out on purpose, Ford. John and I are much older than you. We have... certain experiences in common. You haven't experienced those things, so you wouldn't understand them - not because you're young or because you aren't smart enough, but because you don't have a frame of reference. I didn’t understand well myself, until… I acquired a frame of reference. It’s the same with your parents. They have complicated things that happened, good and bad all mixed up together, and from time to time, we’re reminded of the past. That’s all."

Ford frowned at John again. "Violet said that you don't tell us about your sad memories because you don't want us to be sad too."

John couldn't help a smile. His little girl was sometimes the smartest person he knew. "Violet’s right. Some of the things that happened to me, and Sherlock, and your parents, were very bad things, but they're over and we’re all okay. And we don’t want to make you scared or sad about things that are over and can't hurt you."

"But if they’re over, why are you still sad and scared when you remember them?"

Sherlock held Ford’s cheek and stroked it with his thumb, but didn't have an answer.

It was John who said: "Some things leave scars inside your mind, Ford, like you get scars on your skin. Everything has healed and we’re okay, but sometimes when we remember all the bad and confused stuff, it aches for a little while. That's all."

Ford leaned against Sherlock, his cheek against Sherlock’s jaw, but he kept looking at John, because it seemed that John was better at explaining this bit.

“Violet says… it might make you feel better that we don't know about the bad things that happened to you. Is that right?”

Sherlock bundled Ford up closed to his chest and whispered “Yes” while John stroked Ford’s curls and nodded.

“But I want to understand so I can stop you being sad when you remember.”

“You do stop us being sad,” John told him, “The fact that you and Violet are here, and you don’t know about those sad things, that makes us feel better. That makes us happy.”

“Is that why you sometimes laugh after you’ve been sad?”

Sherlock kissed his forehead. “Yes,” he said again.

“Will I know what happened one day?” Ford asked.

And then Sherlock seemed gripped by a terrible sorrow that hurt Ford to see. “I don’t want you ever to understand the things that make us sad,” Sherlock continued, “I don’t want you to ever know about the bad things or to have that frame of reference. I don’t want you to think less of me for what happened; or more of me. Either prospect is too appalling to contemplate.”

John reached past Ford to grip Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. He blinked at John, and then he looked at Ford. “I don’t want you ever to have bad dreams,” he said at last, and Ford knew that there were hundreds more things Sherlock was thinking underneath that. And he wanted to ask, but then he thought about what Sherlock had said, about how sometimes satisfying your curiosity could hurt someone you loved.

Perhaps, Ford thought, he really didn’t need to know what had happened. Not if it meant hurting John and Sherlock and his parents to ask without a very good reason.

“But I don’t want you to have bad dreams either,” said Ford, voice breaking.

“I know.” Sherlock kissed Ford’s hair, and again.

“John’s right,” said Ford with a sigh, “It’s very complicated.”

“Does it help to know that I don’t have as many bad dreams as I used to?”

“Really?” He looked hopefully into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I promise. John helps to keep them away, and you and Violet do too. And I know that your father helps your mother, and that you help both of them. Having you made all the difference to all of us, Ford.”

The last of Ford’s defiance at last faded away. He burrowed into Sherlock’s embrace and held on for a while before turning his face towards John.

“I’m sorry it’s complicated, John,” Ford whispered, “But I’m glad you helped your friends, and I’m glad you didn’t die and that you came to London and made friends with Sherlock and met Mary and Rupe, and you had Violet, because she’s my best friend and if I didn’t have my best friend I’d be sad every day.”

“Me too.” John smiled at him, then at Sherlock over Ford’s head, and this time Ford didn’t mind them having one of their secret, silent conversations.

*

Sally and Mycroft woke up next day to their son jumping onto the end of their bed.

“I’ve made breakfast!” Ford announced cheerfully, then bounced off the bed again to pick up the tray from the sideboard.

“What’s this?” Mycroft lifted the top slice of bread from his toasted sandwich and sniffed suspiciously at the contents.

“A fish finger sandwich,” Ford declared, “The way James May says they should be made.”

“I see,” said Mycroft, lowering the bread. He exchanged a look with his wife, who was grinning impishly at him. Cautiously, Mycroft lifted the sandwich and took a bite. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. Ford watched him intently all the while.

“Good, isn’t it?” prompted Ford.

“Very good indeed,” said Mycroft, and he was even mostly telling the truth. His son beamed at him.

“I made tea, too,” said Ford, who then poured two cups of extremely strong tea, a real builder’s brew.

“I just wanted you to know,” said Ford matter-of-factly while he watched his parents drink the tea (and his father winced only slightly at the nigh on chewable beverage) “That it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me about those secrets.”

Sally raised her eyebrows in question, because her mouth was full of sandwich.

“About your scars that make you sad sometimes,” Ford elaborated, “I know you don’t want to make _me_ sad by telling me about it.”

“Oh?” Mycroft managed.

“It’s complicated,” said Ford with mature certainty, “I know. John and Sherlock explained about how sometimes you remember bad, confusing things and it makes you ache a bit, but then it’s okay again. So I sort of understand even though I don’t understand _everything_ and Sherlock doesn’t want me to ever understand everything about it and I suppose you don’t want me to either.”

Sally reached out to her son, caressing his cheek. “No, Ford, sweetie. We don’t.”

Ford nodded. “Okay. But when you feel sad, let me know, and I’ll hug you so that you know we’re all okay and we’re fine and we’re all _right here_. Deal?”

And it made no sense at all that his parents suddenly got all teary, but happy-teary, not that sad-sorry-scared thing, but, Ford decided, maybe it was okay to not always understand the why of everything, as long as he knew what he was supposed to do.

So he crawled onto the bed and put one skinny arm around his mother’s shoulders, and one around his father’s, and the three of them squished each other in an awkward but perfect three way hug.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kizzia, who gave me valuable assistance in working out John's military service history, which is touched on here and will be explored more fully in story 100!
> 
> The song quoted here is Honour: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2117970


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